


The Makings of a Dark Wolf

by rhetoricalrogue



Series: How Far We've Come [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complete, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pre-Game Events, Tumblr Prompt, in-game events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 19:10:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17966357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhetoricalrogue/pseuds/rhetoricalrogue
Summary: Snapshots of Moira Cousland, taken from various points in her life.





	1. A Moment from their Childhood

**Author's Note:**

> This was an OC Ficlet Challenge I found on Tumblr back in 2015.

“Papa?”

“Yes, Pup?”

Moira swung her legs from her perch at the foot of her parents’ bed. “Why do you have to leave?” she asked, fiddling with the straps to her father’s half-packed satchel.

Bryce stopped sorting through the documents and other last minute items for his trip into Denerim to give his daughter his full attention. “I’m leaving because King Maric called for a meeting with me to see how well our Teyrnir is doing. Do you remember what I taught you about what happens in those meetings?“

She scrunched her mouth up as she thought. “You report what’s going on, with our people and the crops and the mer-mer…”

“Merchant trade,” he finished.

Moira pouted. “But why do you have to be gone so _long_?”

“Will you miss me, my sweetheart?” He watched as she nodded, her eyes downcast. “The two weeks will fly by and I’ll be back home before you know it, just you wait. In the meantime, you have Fergus to keep you company.”

“Fergus only plays with me when he feels like it,” she argued. “He chases me with spiders he finds in the stables to keep me away when he and Rory get together after Rory’s finished mucking out the stalls.” Rory Gilmore was one of her and her brother’s favorite squires and eight years old. Seeing as he was the same as her brother and shared similar interests, the two of them had hit it off immediately. Moira, being three years their junior, was deemed too babyish by both boys for the serious task of running about the training yard and swinging wooden practice swords as they pretended to be the knights they one day aspired to become. 

Nan, Moira's governess, didn’t let her out of her sight much anyway, especially after the mud pie incident the week before.

“Well, you have your mother to spend time with.”

“Mama doesn’t read our Bedtime Book right.” Moira and her father had a nightly tradition where he would read a chapter of _The Adventures of the Black Fox_ to her. He read in different voices for all the characters and made all the words leap off the page. Her mother did an _okay_ job when she read to her, but she preferred snuggling up to her father and feeling the way his deep voice made his chest rumble against her ear.

Bryce smiled. “You’ll have to forgive her, Pup. She hasn’t had as much practice reading the Black Fox as I have. Perhaps you can find something in the library that will be a Bedtime Book for the two of you?”

“I’ll look, I guess.” Moira picked up his satchel and hugged it to her. “Two weeks is a long time.”

He sat down next to her and gathered her up in his arms. “I’ll tell you what,” he started. “I’ll leave _this_ with you for safekeeping.” He took his signet ring off and pressed it into her palm. “When you miss me when I’m gone, take it out. I’ll feel you thinking of me all the way in Denerim.”

Her eyes went wide as she clutched the ring, the metal still warm from his hand. “You will?”

Bryce laughed and tapped her nose affectionately with his index finger. “Of course I will! All fathers have a special connection to their daughters, you know.” Giving her one last squeeze, he rose and opened his wife’s jewelry case. Picking out the simplest silver chain she owned, he went back to Moira and took his ring from her hand. “Here,” he said, threading the ring onto the necklace and placing it around her neck, kissing the top of her head as he did so. “That way you can carry me around everywhere you go.”

“But what about you?” she asked. “How will I know you miss me too?”

“My darling girl, I keep you and your brother and mother right here,” he pointed to his heart, “everywhere I go. I’ll miss your smiling faces when I’m away, but knowing that you’re safe at home waiting for me to get back makes me feel better.”

She tilted her head. “I should find something, just in case.” She gave him one last hug before sliding off the bed and running out the room.

It wasn’t until Bryce was unpacking his bags in the palace’s guest room that he noticed something soft at the bottom of his satchel. Laughing, he pulled out Moira’s battered stuffed mabari his girl hardly went anywhere without. Giving the dog a kiss, he began to count the days until his return.


	2. A moment of triumph or success

Two combatants circled the other in the training ring, looking for an opening to strike. Sweat dripped down Moira’s brow and she narrowed her eyes before lunging.

“That’s never going to work,” Rory teased, easily blocking her attack with his shield. “You’ve tried that four times already.”

“And one of these days it’s eventually going to work.”

He laughed. “And this is why I always knock your ass on the ground, Cousland.” He grinned at her from behind his shield as he moved with her. He could already see her next attack: she was stronger with her right side and it looked like she was going to launch herself into a three hit combination. One step to the side and a block with his sword would completely take the wind out of her sails.

And it did.

“Will you _stop that?_ ” she growled, rolling away from his practice blade. Her long hair had partially come out of the messy bun she had initially tied it in, falling into her eyes and giving her a wild appearance.

“If I stop doing this, how are you supposed to learn how to defend yourself?” He struck out, nodding in approval as she blocked his blow with both of her blunted daggers. Years of fighting with her made all of her tells especially visible, which was why he was able to avoid the foot she aimed at his crotch. “And _that’s_ fighting dirty!”

“Pardon me, Ser. I didn’t know we were sparring politely,” she teased, dancing out of his range. “Shall I hold my pinkies out when I try to stab you?”

Again, her moves were perfectly telegraphed to him. “Bet you five silvers that I can knock you down flat in three moves or less,” Rory taunted, neatly avoiding her attack.

“Make that ten silvers, and you’re the one knocked down flat.”

“I will take that bet, my lady. As a token of friendship, I’ll even buy you something nice when you hand your money over to me. Perhaps a roll of bandages to cover your wounded pride.”

“Aww, how sweet. I’ll be certain to return the favor when you give me _your_ money.” She darted to the right, daggers and arms poised to perform one of her spinning attacks. He moved his shield to block the blow and redistributed his weight accordingly. If he timed it right, he could use her momentum against her and have her on the ground in one smooth motion.

There was only one problem: she didn’t move the way he anticipated. At the last possible second, she shifted and attacked his open flank, her daggers striking at the back of his knee. Off-balance, he staggered and all it took was one hard shove from Moira’s shoulder to send him sprawling.

Scattered applause broke out. “About time!” Rory wasn’t quite sure who said it, but it sounded like one of the newer soldiers. The sound of coin passing hands told him that his and Moira’s bet wasn’t the only one that had taken place.

Moira stood over him, a huge grin splitting from ear to ear. “So, three moves or less and my ass is in the dirt, huh?” she crowed, her hands on her hips. “Looks like someone needed a lesson in humility.”

He really couldn’t help it. Smiling disarmingly up at her, he nodded. “Yes, I think someone does.” His hand snaked out and grabbed her ankle. With one firm tug, he had her on the ground. He would have laughed at her surprised squawk as her back hit the packed dirt, but his breath left him in a pained wheeze as her elbow connected solidly with his stomach.

“I hope that hurt,” she groaned, coughing as she tried to sit up. Giving up, she flopped back against him.

“Completely worth it,” he replied. They lay there for a while, both of them enjoying the afternoon sun.

Moira turned her head and met his eyes. “So, best out of three?”

He winked at her. “You’re on.”


	3. A Moment of Loss

It was so _stupid_ to be crying now. It was absolutely vain to be sobbing so brokenly over something as trivial as uneven strands of hair, the ends of which still stank from getting hit by a mage’s fireball spell in her flight to escape her home as Rendon Howe's men attacked. Pressing one hand to her mouth to keep quiet – Moira had a feeling that from his vantage point beside their small campfire that Duncan already knew she was awake and crying – she rocked herself slightly and ran a shaking hand through her ruined hair.

Hair that Nan had so often taken out twigs and unknotted snarls from in her youth, tisking fondly the entire time. Hair Rory would often pull as a way to playfully annoy her when they were children, but even still as they grew older.

Hair her sister-in-law had teased about being envious of, the two of them comparing lengths and sharing haircare tips. Hair her nephew had once put flowers in and dubbed her Lady Servana to his Black Fox as they played together in the woods so many times, the two of them emerging muddy and glowing with sweat from running and so, so happy to be together.

Hair that her mother had combed and braided and styled as the two of them laughed or talked or sighed over various topics over the years.

Hair her father’s nose would often brush as he lovingly placed kisses to her forehead, his hand gently smoothing over the length when he hugged her.

Quinn, her ever faithful mabari, let out a tiny whine and nudged his face against hers. She curled against him as he gave her cheek a lick, the gesture meant to soothe. The letter she had shoved underneath her bloodied and ill-fitting borrowed leather curiass, the contents talking excitedly about love and future plans, crinkled as her arms came up to circle her dog, and she mourned the man who had written them, knowing that once she had revenge on Howe for butchering her family, Nathaniel would want nothing more to do with her.

Taking a shaky breath, Moira scrubbed at her face with the heel of her hand and snuggled closer to Quinn. Trying her best to remember her family as they were in good times instead of how she had last seen them, she sat up. Impatiently braiding the jagged ends of her hair and knotting them at the back of her head so they wouldn’t fall in her eyes, she resolved to be stronger, to keep moving until she was one step closer to the vengeance she so desperately craved. 

It was _just_ hair, after all.


	4. A Moment that Changed Them

“So, do you think we can do this, just the two of us?”

Moira stared at the campfire without saying a word. She thought Alistair’s question over: initially, she had agreed to become a Grey Warden out of a sense of necessity. Duncan had made a deal with her father: he would safely see her away from Highever in exchange for her service to his order. Her father might be dead, but she would uphold his bargain, no matter how much she disliked the position the Warden had put her family in when they had needed her the most. When she underwent the Joining, it would have been easy to ignore the oncoming Blight and concentrate on marching into Denerim to bring Howe to justice. There were plenty of Wardens to deal with the darkspawn; Duncan wouldn’t be hurting if one went missing.

And then everything changed. The Fereldan Wardens were reduced to two people. Help from Orlais would not be coming, and if Moira was honest with herself, now that her burning rage had quieted - calmed, but never, _never_ extinguished - somewhat, she had no idea how she would go about confronting Howe without quickly getting herself killed. Alistair was trying to cope with the loss of his mentor and friends as best as he could, and when everything boiled down, they were just two kids barely over the age of twenty shouldering a burden better suited for more experienced people.

She shrugged and looked at him. “Do you?”

He set his jaw. “I don’t see us having any other choice. Unless I’m missing the part where we can just go run off to Rivain and wait for all of this to blow over.”

“If I see a ship, you’ll be the first to know.”

Alistair chuckled. “Good. We’ll sit back and drink those frilly, fruity drinks with tiny parasols in them.” He sobered and poked at the fire with a stick. “I’m scared.”

Moira tucked her legs up until her knees touched her chin, her arms circling them. “Me too.”

“I mean, how are we supposed to one, build an army and two, lead that army to defeat the archdemon? You know what I said about my leadership skills.”

Standing up, Moira walked over to Alistair’s side of the fire. Sitting down beside him, she took out the crudely made necklace she had tied around her neck. It was a far cry from the silverite chain her father had always left her with when he went on diplomatic trips, but the signet ring and her parents’ wedding bands still gave her comfort. “We’ll find a way,” she told him. Bumping his shoulder with hers, she added, “Between whatever political clout my name still carries and your ridiculously good hair and boyish charm, we’ll have these treaties secured in no time flat.”

That coaxed a laugh from him, even if it was strained. “You’re putting an awful lot of stock in the power of my hair,” he teased. “But you’re right; we’ll find a way.” He noticed the way Moira shivered and without thinking, draped his arm around her shoulder. He blushed to the tips of his ears when she snuggled close to him.

She tucked her necklace back underneath her curiass and yawned. “You okay to take the rest of this watch, or do you want me to stay up with you?”

“No, get some sleep. We’re still a long way from Redcliffe, you need the rest.” He watched as she padded over to her bedroll, Quinn softly grumbling as her movements woke him before the dog curled around his mistress and fell back to sleep. He tried not to look, but he couldn’t help watching as she pulled some piece of paper out from underneath her chestplate. She took great care to unfold it, her fingers delicately tracing the words before she pressed a kiss to the paper and put it back where she kept it. He’d seen her do that a number of times as they camped already, but never thought it was his business to ask what the letter said or who it was from. He watched as she fell into a fitful sleep and made up his mind. If she could be strong after so much recent tragedy, then so could he.

They’d do this, together.


	5. A Moment of Vulnerability

The stone floor in Fort Drakon was deathly cold against Moira’s backside and bared legs, but she didn’t really feel it. She didn’t really feel _anything_ , which surprised her. She figured, sitting there with a half-healed gash against her ribs Wynne had been able to close before they'd been captured that she’d feel some sort of pain, but it was painless and numb, just like the rest of her. Rendon Howe’s blood was drying, sticky and tacky, on her hands and underneath her fingernails. She stared at her stained hands, remembering the almost too-quick fight. Alistair and Zevran had understood her need to fight the man herself; opting to help her by taking out the henchmen Howe had surrounded himself with instead. Hand going to her side, she remembered how Howe had taunted her, describing exactly how he had killed her parents in such detail that she had flown into a rage, her anger leaving her open to an attack. _Stupid,_ she thought. She hadn't traveled all this way, endured so much, only to be felled like a green recruit because she had let her emotions take over. If she didn't die from infection first, then she'd carry the reminder of her mistake for the rest of her life.

Moira curled her legs close to her chest. She expected to feel some sort of satisfaction at seeing him lying there on the dungeon floor, his lifeblood pooling out from underneath him. She’d stabbed him through the chest with her family’s sword, which had seemed to be a fitting tribute to them in her mind. She expected to feel a sense of justice, of vengeance gained, but in the end, she felt absolutely empty. The smell of her home burning, the cries of the servants, the wheezy, pained inhalations as her father took his last few breaths in the larder and the determined glint in her mother's eyes as she ordered her to run…all those noises had been with her during the fight, but once Rendon drew his last breath and his eyes glazed over in death, they fell silent, leaving her well and truly alone.

Her hands shaking, she pulled out Nathaniel’s letter from her breast band – luckily it had survived the guards stripping them of all their possessions – and tried to unfold it. She’d folded and unfolded the letter so many times that it was permanently creased and stained from her travels. She’d long since memorized the words, Nate’s steady and sure handwriting often soothing her when nightmares plagued her, the memory of his voice a calming balm to her senses.

Moira let out a tiny cry of distress as she suddenly dropped his letter, belatedly realizing that she was staining the edges of it with his father’s blood.

_Do you think my son will ever love you now,_ Howe had rasped, blood bubbling between his lips.

_We all make sacrifices,_ she had answered, coldly sneering down as his eyes dimmed and life finally drained from his body. 

_I deserved more._

Moira’s hand went to her mouth as she bit back a sob. “No,” she whispered. “ _They_ deserved more.” She carefully tucked Nathaniel’s letter back in its place next to her heart. _As did we._


	6. A Moment they Made a Mistake

“Don’t you _dare_ die on me, Nathaniel Howe,” she said between gritted teeth. Her arm ached where a genlock had sunk its teeth in between gaps of her armor and something unpleasant was squelching in her boot, but she didn’t give a damn. She’d suffered through much worse only a few short months ago during the Blight. What she was more concerned about was the man lying prone on the Great Hall’s floor, the Joining Cup still held in his slack fingers. She had held her breath as she watched him drink, stomach knotting unpleasantly with anxiety as she desperately prayed that he would make it, that he wouldn’t grip his throat and fall to his knees in convulsions before dying a painful death. When he collapsed on the ground in a boneless heap, she couldn’t stop the panicked shriek of his name from slipping past her lips, couldn’t stop her legs from rushing to his side or her arms from dragging his head and shoulders onto her lap. Their reunion had gone as poorly as she had anticipated – _poorer_ than she'd anticipated, actually. Never in her wildest dreams did she think to meet the love of her life again in a jail cell and hear him curse her name or look upon her with such venom – and even still, she now breathed a sigh of relief when she felt his pulse strongly beat at his throat. Without thinking, she lovingly ran her fingers across his cheek and brow, carefully pushing the hair that had gotten into his eyes aside as she stared down at the face she hadn't seen in so long that she still knew better than her own.

And that was when she realized what she had done. What she was _doing_. There weren’t many people in the hall, but she could see the wheels spinning in Oghren’s head as he clicked together the small pieces of her past she had let slip during their travels: the mentions of a nobleman’s son she had fallen in love with, the letter she still kept tucked close to her heart she knew he had seen her pull out numerous times, the way she had gently let Alistair down easy when he had blushingly offered her a rose. She also saw the curious way Anders looked at them both, as if the newcomer wasn’t quite sure of the history, but he was certain that whatever happened next between the people in front of him would be good entertainment.

But what was the worst was the look on Varel’s face. Her seneschal had the privilege of seeing both Nathaniel and Moira grow up. He knew their history, just as he knew how much Nathaniel despised her now. _Oh you poor girl,_ his face seemed to say. His eyes were kind, just as they had always been, but Moira couldn’t afford to have a weakness such as this out in the open, not when they had a new threat of darkspawn to investigate and she had an arling to run.

Closing up her emotions behind a well practiced mask, she gestured to two of the guards lingering in the hall. She knew how servants talked; tongues would be quickly wagging all throughout the keep at their newest mistress’ show of emotion, but it was a price she would have to pay. “Help me navigate Warden Howe to a more comfortable spot, please,” she said, trying to place as much authority into her shaking voice as possible. She didn’t know how long Nate would be out, but she guessed that he wouldn’t like to wake up with a crick in his neck to go along with the chip on his shoulder. If memory served her correctly, there were guest chambers close by that he could rest in. She watched as the guards picked Nathaniel’s limp body up, one lifting under his slack arms and the other taking his legs, and stood up to guide them.

“Upstairs on the second floor, western wing, third door to the left,” Varel murmured, knowing that Moira had not visited Vigil’s Keep in years and was unfamiliar with the layout. She nodded her thanks and headed out in that direction, the guards and Nathaniel in tow. She had time to think of what would happen next, but decided to save that worry for another time.

Nathaniel could rail at and hate her as much as he wished once he woke. He was alive, and that was all that mattered to her right now. She would deal with everything that came after later.


	7. A Moment of Overcoming an Obstacle

Apprehension and nervousness clawed at her throat as she let Nathaniel lead her out of the hall. He had been quiet ever since coming back from his sister’s home, and while she could tell that their visit had gone well, there was something on his mind. Ever since they had been children, Nathaniel had this way of worrying his bottom lip with his teeth while working out a particularly difficult thought.

He did so now, his fingers warm around hers. He stopped in front of a room and opened the door with his free hand. Looking around, the last time she had been inside the informal sitting parlor had been when Nathaniel’s parents had hosted a ball when she had been seventeen or eighteen. She and Nate had broken away from the main party and had spent the rest of the evening curled up on the window seat stealing kisses and sharing hopes for the future.

_Oh,_ she thought. _We both had been so young._

She didn’t have much hope for a similar conversation. While they had managed to begin speaking civilly to the other after the events in the forest mines, Nathaniel still had a slightly icy disposition when it came to her. She was grateful for the small change in demeanor: while completely expected, the hurtful barbs and hateful looks had taken a toll on her.

“I owe you an apology,” he said without preamble, his fingers nervously twisting the ring he wore on his left index finger, teeth firmly against his lip.

“No you don’t. It’s fine,” she said, her response automatically falling from her mouth. No matter what he said or did or however angry she got in the moment, she loved him so much that she didn’t hold his actions against him. She would have reacted the same, had their positions been reversed.

“Yes, I _do_. And _no,_ it is _not_ fine.” She listened as he told her about his visit with his sister, how she had told him the truth about what their father had done. Her heart ached for him as she watched the little boy who had idolized his father slowly being stripped away until only a man with a truth he didn’t know how to handle was left behind.

“Can you ever forgive me, Moira?” There was so much raw hurt in his voice, in his face.

She embraced him. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she told him honestly. She _knew_ him. He wasn’t asking merely for forgiveness for how he had treated her; he was begging her to forgive him for not being able to see his father’s actions beforehand and being there to stop him. "You had nothing to do with what had happened."

He held on to her tightly, as if he were afraid she’s slip through his fingers. She felt his lips against her hair. “Where does this leave us?” he asked, his voice hoarse. He pulled back and cupped her cheek in his hand, his thumb gentle as he cautiously ran it across her skin, as if he were unsure if he even had permission to do such.

She leaned against his hand. “Wherever we wish to be,” she whispered, turning her head to press a brief kiss against his palm.

“Good.” He gave her a crooked, boyish smile and there, _there_ , was the Nathaniel she had fallen in love with. Her knees nearly buckled in relief at seeing him again. “Good.” He led her to the window seat and hesitantly opened his arms in invitation. She gladly went to him, noticing right away how the tension seemed to leach from both of their bodies.

“So,” he started, his palm warm against the curve of her shoulder. “I know it’s been a long time since I wrote you last, but what have you been up to?”

She let out a half-laugh, half-sob and wiped at her cheek. “Well, as a dear friend once told me, the one good thing about the Blight was how it brought people together.” She started her story from Ostagar, stopping only when he quietly asked questions. They eventually fell asleep holding the other in that window seat, both of them relieved that the air had finally been cleared. They might be different people than the young couple that had once sat in the same space, but they both carefully hoped that there was a chance to start something new.


	8. A Moment With Someone they Cherish

“You’re not closing your eyes!”

Moira grinned. “And _you_ wouldn’t have been able to tell if you were actually _hiding_ ,” she countered. She laughed as Oren grabbed her wrists and pushed her hands towards her face.

“No peeking,” he said, his expression deadly serious.

“No peeking,” she agreed solemnly, nodding behind her fingers. “Now go hide. One…Two…” She smirked as Oren shrieked excitedly and the sound of his feet scampering for cover echoed off the stone floor as she slowly counted to ten. “Ready or not, here I come!”

“You _are_ actually going to go look for him, aren’t you?” Nathaniel asked from the sofa he had been lounging on, the book he’d been skimming resting on his stomach.

“Eventually,” Moira replied. “He’s behind the curtain in the next room. I can see his feet from here.” Getting up off the floor, she walked over to him. “My nephew and I play this game every day. _You_ only get leave to come home every so often.” She sat down next to him and leaned over his body before giving him a soft peck on the lips.

“Yes, and it never fails that I spend most of my time here in Highever instead of Amaranthine.” Nathaniel’s hand reached out and he brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I wonder why that is.” He leaned forward and kissed her again, his hand moving from her cheek to the back of her neck to bring her closer.

“I love you,” she murmured, smiling against his lips.

“And I love you.” Nathaniel pressed his forehead against hers. “Now, go find Oren and when it’s his turn to be the seeker, I’ll help you find a nice,” he kissed her. “Quiet,” another kiss. “Spot to hide in.”

Moira giggled as she reluctantly untangled herself from him. “So long as the spot is big enough for two.”

“Naturally.” He looked past Moira’s shoulder at the pair of feet peeking out from behind a window curtain. Oren was starting to get fidgety, which meant they didn’t have much time. “Meet me in the storage closet at the end of the hall,” he whispered, nipping at Moira’s ear before sitting up, which made her get up from the sofa so he could stand. Marking his place in his book, he listened as Moira made a great show of looking for Oren in all the wrong places before theatrically throwing the curtain aside and tickling her nephew once she found him.

_Just a few more years,_ he thought. He’d be done with the Free Marches soon, having spent several years learning government regulations and making ties that would help Amaranthine not only now, but later when he inherited the Arling. He understood the tradition of sending the eldest son out to broaden his political horizons, but Maker, how he missed Moira. The letters they exchanged had been read multiple times, but it didn’t compare to seeing her in person and having her in his arms. 

The ring he planned to offer her weighed heavily in his pocket. He couldn’t propose, not now, but he always carried it with him as a sort of lucky totem. 

Still smiling, he headed towards the hall closet. The soft whisper of Moira’s dress told him she wasn’t far behind.


	9. A Moment they Considered their Future

The rose garden in the center of Vigil’s Keep was Moira’s favorite spot. When she had first gotten there, it had been overgrown and full of dead rosebushes. Moira had frowned as she had surveyed the harsh lines of the planting beds and the cold, unforgiving feeling that all the stone gave off. While they had been investigating the Architect and the Mother, she had spent what little spare time she had pacing the gardens trying to envision what it would look like once they finally had time, money, and resources to spare on something so frivolous.

Now, three years after reconstruction on both Amaranthine and the Vigil was complete and almost seven years after the Blight, the garden was a riot of colors. Moira had taken a page from her mother’s book and had included a wide variety of flowers and herbs instead of sticking to just the roses the previous Arlessa had gone with. The fountain at the center had been restored; as a nod towards the Wardens, the gargoyle spout that had unnerved Nathaniel and his siblings as children had been exchanged for that of a griffon’s head.

Moira had also taken many samples of her mother’s roses from Highever, successfully propagating the garden with delicately scented yet hardy blossoms in varying shades of red, yellow and orange. She had made certain that the garden was practical as well: beds of lavender for the laundries and rows upon rows of healing herbs thrived. It was a pleasant space, and unfortunately one that she hadn’t been around to oversee from the beginning. Yet now that things had calmed down somewhat, she found herself often visiting and contemplating the future.

“I thought you’d be here,” Nathaniel said, strolling towards her. Life after most of the post-Blight darkspawn activity had mostly died down suited her husband; he was more relaxed, the tense lines around his eyes and mouth only showing up when something irritated him, which was usually after a long day of listening to the banns complain about one issue or another.

“Long day?” she asked, moving over to make room on the bench situated under the shade.

He groaned. “The next time Bann Margaret comes to complain about needing a noise ordinance in Amaranthine’s markets, _you_ get to handle it.” He wrapped his arm around her and kissed her cheek. “Yet the day is bound to get better, now that I found you.”

She tipped her face so she could catch his lips. “Sweet talker.”

“So, aside from being the balm to my frazzled nerves, what have you been up to?”

Moira picked up the sheet of paper she had set aside. “Alistair wrote me. He said that he wanted us to be the first to know that he and Anora are going to visit Orlais to speak with Empress Celene about broadening trade relations.”

“Knowing Alistair, he's probably _terribly_ excited.”

She laughed. “And knowing Anora, she's probably trying to calm him by reminding him of the bounty of Orlesian cheese he'll be exposed to.”

Nathaniel snuggled her closer and placed his free hand against the swell of her belly. Against most odds Wardens faced and everything they had gone through, it was still surreal that they'd soon be welcoming a new addition to their family. "I just hope they come back in time to greet this little one."

Moira rested her head against his shoulder. "I don't know. Babies happen to arrive on their own schedules, royal audience or no." She laced her fingers with his. "We still haven't thought of a name."

"I like Evelyn, if it's a girl."

Moira nodded. "It's a good name. What do you think of Tristan, if it's a boy?"

He smiled. "Tristan is a good, solid name." He pressed a kiss to his wife's brow. "Tristan Bryce Howe."

Moira jerked up at the mention of her father's name as their child's possible middle name. "I know we never discussed middle names," Nathaniel started, hoping that he hadn't upset her when he saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes. "But if you don't like it, we can always..."

"No," she said, blinking and reaching up so she could cup his face with both her hands. "I think he would have been honored with the choice. It means a lot to me that you'd think of it."

"Did you ever think that we would be here, doing what we've been doing and living this life?" He turned his head and kissed her palm.

Moira shook her head. "No, not in a million years. I wouldn't trade it for anything."

Nathaniel closed his eyes as he leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together. "Neither would I," he said. "Neither would I."


End file.
